Page 5 of Valentine's Slave

“I’m waiting,” she says, leaning back in her chair, taking a breath.

I take a sip of my coffee, holding her gaze. “My name is Valentino,” I say. I’ve told this story quite a few times now, but never with this certain, entertaining twist at the end. “Twenty years ago, when I was twenty-four, my wife and infant son were killed, and it was my fault. Ever since then, I’ve lived a life of solitude and celibacy. I only see women once a year, during the week of Valentine’s Day.”

“And you pay one of them fifty grand to fuck her?” Ava pipes up, her crusty gaze unaffected by my tale.

“No. I normally ask a regular girl on a regular date. End of story. But that isn’t enough anymore. It won’t make sense to you right now, but I need something more, something darker. That’s why I’m asking you, in whom I sense some of that same darkness, to accept fifty thousand dollars in return for being my Valentine’s slave.”

She studies me, hard, eyebrows knit together. The word ‘slave’ doesn’t seem to set her off like I thought it would, which could mean one of several things.

“And what exactly is this darkness that you sense in me?” she asks.

“Your eyes,” I say softly. “They’re brave and wild and sad. Your innocence. It’s cloaked in defiance, in danger.”

“You know nothing about me,” she says quietly.

“I’m right, though, aren’t I?” I go on. “You’ve had a tough life, privileged as it may seem from the outside. You’ve voyaged through deep pain, shame, fear, and now you’re fighting to survive.”

I see a tick in her jaw, and I know I’ve hit the bullseye. She leans forward, but she sidesteps her emotions and asks a question instead.

“What does it mean to be your Valentine’s ‘slave’?” She says the last word with something like disgust.

“It means that for seven days and seven nights, you’re mine. Right here in my bag, I have a contract outlining everything on and off limits. But for the most part, it means that you trust me. You let me guide your body and your heart through shadows and valleys. You let me bend and break you until we’re both born again, anew.”

“So, rough sex,” she drawls. “You could have just said that.”

“It’s much more than just sex. Without opening your soul and your heart, sex can only penetrate the body. Only with trust, with surrender, can one access the deeper fire that keeps humanity alive.”

“A week isn’t a lot of time to build up trust with a complete stranger,” Ava notes. “You should have thought your plan through a little better.”

“Trust is a choice.”

“Trust has to be earned,” she challenges.

“And it will be.”

She studies me again, gazing into my eyes as if she’s trying to turn me inside out and make me reveal everything I’m not telling her.

“Show me the contract.” Her voice is flat.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out a folder and slide it to her across the table.

She scans the first several pages, outlining the general idea of the situation, and then starts reading in detail when it gets to the nitty-gritty of the deal, the sexual specifics.

“Dude, you’re kinky,” she notes, the corner of her lips pulled up in amusement. “But there’s no way I’m promising unlimited anal to a stranger. And how am I supposed to know that I won’t end up dead? Spanking, handcuffs? What are the force and pain limits?”

She’s thinking ahead. I have to give her that.

“Have you ever tried anal?” I ask, and now my lips are on their way to a smile.

“Yes, not that it’s your business,” she shoots back. “But it wasn’t pleasant.”

“That means he did it wrong,” I say quietly. “Anal done right brings immense pleasure and deep bonding to both parties.”

“Yeah, as if you’re a sex god—you said you only get it once a year.”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t study my craft during the rest of the time.”

She gives me a look. “Okay, you’re weirder than I thought. And besides, I didn’t join the sugar daddy site to fuck.”

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